


Vantage Point

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23916451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Talent night at the Officer's Club has some interesting perks.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Vantage Point

Talent night at the O club found Major Charles Emerson Winchester III sipping a third cognac as his fellows danced, sang, or debuted other unexpected skills onstage. O’Reilley, it turned out, was a fine percussionist, and Nurse Kellye could quite literally rock a hula skirt (that routine had gotten plenty of cheers). Usually, the Major wouldn’t have permitted himself this third drink. It was excessive and he knew it... but it was also allowing him to unmoor from the pain of the past few days, to forget the men who had died on his table even as he fought for them with all of his strength. Besides, the act he’d come to see was coming up (not that he ever would have admitted to anticipating such a mad spectacle). 

When Klinger climbed the stage to great applause, Charles lifted his glass and watched, for a moment, through a surge of amber. His nerve endings buzzed. The Corporal’s dress and dance were both new, the latter something of a tantarella mixed with elements (though Charles did not know it) of the dabkeh. 

A flash of color - out of place - caught his eye. He looked again to be sure. 

_Oh my._

The seat he had chosen sat in a sort of depression (leftover, more than likely, from bombing) and at this particular angle, he could, when Klinger whirled, see up his skirt. 

A covert look around told him that no one shared his view. Winchester hardly believed in sin, but he believed in honor. Stealing the sight of that flash of red silk wasn’t exactly noble, but the drink helped him smooth it over with himself. Korea was so ugly, so dust-and-dun drab; didn’t he deserve something pretty on which to rest his eyes?!

Several parts of him, some below the belt, answered with a resounding “Yes!” 

***

As he whirled, Klinger scanned the bar for friendly faces. Hawkeye usually found a way to insert himself into his routine through a hand raised for a high five or a particularly apt cat call, but he must have been on rounds, because there was no sign of him. The Colonel was there to nod approval at his latest ensemble, at least, and Mulcahy was banging away at the piano. Major Houlihan sat laughing with her staff; Klinger was glad to see that she was actually allowing some of this crop to get close to her. It was a good change. 

The face that surprised him the most was that of Major Charles Emerson Winchester. Charles maintained that Winchesters didn’t perspire, but Klinger could see that his face was warm from the drinks he’d downed, his skin rosy. And his eyes... Klinger could never characterize that color. It wasn’t exactly blue - but people didn’t have amethyst eyes, right? Whatever the shade, those eyes were fastened on him in so unwavering a manner that cartographers could have drawn beautiful lines directly from one man to the other, regardless of where Klinger moved to on the stage. 

Klinger wasn’t put out of joint by the attention; as a man in a dress, he was used to a certain amount of staring and whispering. But Winchester? As far as Klinger knew, he rated somewhere below the rats that roamed the garbage dump and somewhere above lice in the Major’s book. Sure, Charles enjoyed sparring with him sometimes (and he didn’t always get the best of him - just usually - and Klinger chalked that up to an Ivy League vocabulary) but that was the extent of their bond. Not that Klinger didn’t believe there should be more; on more than one occasion, he’d tried to tell Charles how alike they were. They both wanted out of Korea - desperately, manically, profoundly. They both knew how to work an angle. They both looked good in a scarf - and not every guy could pull that off. But Winchester had always turned his nose up at any olive branch he’d extended, too proud to associate with an enlisted man. 

Speaking of proud...

No.

He had to be mistaken. It was a shadow. A trick of the light. 

Klinger continued to sashay across the stage, delighting in the white flash of smiles, the merry applause. “They should send him around as entertainment for the troops,” he heard a convalescing soldier joke. “He’s a hell of a lot more fun than those singing groups! Better to look at, too.” 

Trying to be subtle about it (no easy feat in skin-tight silk topped with peekaboo lace) Klinger returned to the spot on the stage where he’d looked under the table and seen... well, he wasn’t even going to name it in thought. It just didn’t seem possible. 

Oh, but it was. 

And no one in the entire rest of the club could see. If Klinger had been a much, much braver man, he would have used his eyes to snare Winchester’s and let him know, quite wordlessly, what he could see from this particular vantage point. But best to bring the dance to its conclusion and not to think too closely on Winchester’s not-so-small under-the-table salute. After all, he could be thinking of anyone, right? 

***

Winchester wasn’t sure if he should laugh at himself or tear his hair out in frustration. He was a pillar of strength- practically a Stoic compared to the Visigoths and heathens with which he was forced to associate. How had he permitted this to happen? And as for being a pillar... well, part of him was still acting the part. 

_I’m never going to be able to leave this stupid club. Colonel Potter is going to ask for me in surgery, but I won’t be able to attend. How humiliating._

But even as he berated himself, a secret part of him liked his predicament. It meant, after all, that he could still feel. What the hell, he finally decided. Maybe he could talk himself into a slightly more relaxed state long enough to go somewhere private... and then he’d imagine running his fingers over that red silk, burrowing into the dark curls behind it, pulling it down... 

“Hiya, Major.”

_Oh no._

His fantasy of twirling dark curls around his finger was very much interrupted by the figure at its center. 

_Oh, oh, oh no._

For some deeply diabolical reason, Klinger’s appearance didn’t cause his imaginings to evaporate - fragile balloon being pricked by the sharp point of reality - but, rather, enhanced them. From this close he could see details the stage had denied him (the O club didn’t exactly possess footlights). Klinger had shaved recently; the smoothness of his cheeks made Winchester’s hands ache to touch them. And those eyes... what could he do that would chase their cinnamon-coffee color to the very edges of swallowing black? 

“Hello, Klinger. That was, ah, quite the performance.” _Especially the unintentional part._

Klinger froze at his words. Was Charles flirting with him? Did they even _do that_ in Boston? And how could he find out without getting his teeth knocked out? “Glad you liked it. Truth is, this dress isn’t really stage ready yet. The back is just kind of knotted together. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of it without tearing it up.”

Winchester’s face had been warm before Klinger appeared; at those words the temperature ticked upward and he had to remind himself that he was supposed to be cooling off. He ran over complex chemical formulas for medication in his mind for 2.6 seconds before he gave up. 

Receiving no response to what he’d considered a pretty blatant opening, Klinger wished the Major a good night. Too bad, really, but he wasn’t surprised. Winchester was top shelf, after all; he was the cheap stuff that you bought to blind yourself in your worst hours (and a man, to boot; that had a way of putting a lot of guys off). 

Klinger made it as far as his tent alone. The dress really was a tangle, too. He should have waited another week and done the sewing properly. Oh well. When he turned to find a pair of pinking shears, Winchester was there. Klinger hadn’t heard him enter. How could someone that tall possibly be that silent? 

“Major? Did you need something?”

It turned out that Winchester wasn’t just high class; he had some kind of deal in place that allowed him to work around the laws of physics. At least that was what Klinger decided; he had to in order to be able to grab him by the waist, pull him forward, and position him in just such a way that he had absolutely no doubt as to the purpose of Charles’ visit. 

Klinger moaned. 

“I wanted to pick you up and take you against the wall of that club,” Charles confessed, grinding against him. 

“Why,” he was too breathless to get the words out all at once. “Why didn’t you say so?”

There were two reasons. One: a Winchester never addressed a private matter (never mind an intimate one) in public. Two: “I, ah, needed a moment to gather my composure.” He could see that Klinger didn’t follow. “In other words, Max, you had me so hard for you that I momentarily doubted my ability to stand, let alone walk over here without causing a scandal.” 

Klinger made a sound that was practically a purr. “Well, since you went to all that effort, wanna tell me where we go from here?” 

Winchester looked uncertain for a moment.

“Oh, come on, Major,” Klinger urged. “You can’t say such sweet stuff and not let me pay you back! What do you want me to do?” 

Charles couldn’t look him in the eye when he asked. “Please?” he finished. “Just through the clothes? I don’t want to finish too fast.”

Klinger was the furthest thing from discomfited by this request. Clothes were a big part of his life. If being ridden through them was Charles’ thing, he could more than handle it. He led Charles to his cot and pushed him down before straddling him. Charles gasped as he bore down on him, searching for and finding the place at which they could both feel the most. Klinger had expected the barriers between them to dull his reactions a bit, but the opposite proved true. (Though he did wonder how Winchester could stand the zipper that had to be digging into him.) 

Sweat beaded the Lebanese Corporal’s forehead as he rammed against him. He’d thought himself hot-blooded by ethnicity and temperament but he had nothing on the man beneath him. Though burning up with the desire he was fighting not to go under to, Winchester was tender and attentive to the man pushing him toward the brink. He caressed his arms, sat nearly upright to catch his mouth, and held him tight against him to allow him to feel the effects he was having. 

For Klinger, to experience such sheer and utter acceptance was an aphrodisiac on its own. Charles seemed to adore every part of him - both the muscled maleness of his chest and the aching place they met, need to need, as well as the soft parts, the eyelashes he’d extended and darkened with make-up - beating hard, now, against his cheeks, the lace spilling around their hips. Winchester’s touch was reverent, grateful; he wasn’t asking him to be discard anything or be anyone else. 

Winchester confirmed this as the end came. “You’re everything... everything I wished,” he murmured. Then he deftly unzipped and pressed against the red silk that had so enchanted him, soaking it through. 

Klinger saw him through the aftershocks. Then he slipped out of the damp cloth and lay down beside him. Charles was still catching his breath when he ran his fingers up his thigh to play in the curls between his legs. Klinger pulsed at the slight touch.

“How can I?” 

Klinger turned his face against the bed to look him in the eyes. “I’m so close you could get me there by looking at me,” he admitted. 

“Good idea.” He pulled him into his lap so that Klinger was laying back against him. A full length mirror (intended for evaluating dresses) was tacked to the opposite wall. 

Klinger colored at first. He wasn’t ashamed, but this was new. Winchester didn’t allow him to fret for long. “I’ve got you, Max,” he reassured him. “You can let go for me.” He kissed the back of his neck. “You were not nervous on stage.” 

Klinger watched his new lover’s face in the mirror; Charles looked beyond contented to have him so well in hand. He almost looked, Klinger thought wonderingly, proud. And he felt good. The Corporal could register every individual contact point: Charles’ legs were on either side of him and his chest was at his back, his semen was drying on the inside of his leg; one hand worked him while the other wrote obscene messages on his chest, stomach, and thighs. Whether because of something he could see in their shared tableau or because of something he felt in Klinger’s skin, Charles sensed the approaching end before Klinger said, “Please, don’t stop.”

“I’ve no intention of doing anything of the kind, but dear heart, open your eyes. Look at how very beautiful you are.”

Klinger’s eyes snapped open just as he filled his hand. It went on and on, Charles’ touch wringing sounds out of him that he hadn’t known he was capable of making. When he finally trailed off, Winchester was gently cleaning him off with a wash cloth. The water was warm. He goggled at the surgeon. 

“Did you sit the basin up there,” he indicated the rim of the stove, “when you came in?”

Winchester smiled and kept at his task, enjoying the shine of his damp skin. “Yes.”

Klinger couldn’t believe it. “Pretty sure of yourself, eh, Major?” 

“I had reason to be after that line about the dress. I assume you would like me to liberate you from it now?” 

“Sure. Thanks.” As Winchester worked, Klinger asked, “So want to tell me what exactly it was that got to you so that I can do it again as often as possible?”

Winchester’s chuckle was as rich as cream. “Ah, well, I should probably be half-ashamed to admit this...” but he told him anyway, confessing to his lucky vantage point and the flash of red that had drawn his gaze. When he finished, Klinger was beaming.

“Oh, Major,” he began, “let me tell you what _I_ could see from the stage...”

End! 


End file.
